


Serious Political Puns

by ItsTeatimeSomewhere



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Dark, Drinking, M/M, Suicide Attempt, age of enlightenment
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-09
Updated: 2013-05-26
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:08:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsTeatimeSomewhere/pseuds/ItsTeatimeSomewhere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because puns can be very serious in politics. Things take a turn for the worse when Grantaire loses hope.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta, Robyn! Enjoy!

 

**Grantaire**

This was not the best way to start second semester. However, it was not unusual, which made Grantaire that much more angry. In fact, he didn't even want to go to the goddamn class. It was bullshit, and would be even worse while he was nursing a massive hangover. Who cared about the Enlightenment? It was a stupid time period filled with posh guys who thought they were so high and mighty, when all they really did was piss off other people.

Grantaire hated those people. With the passion of a thousand fiery suns.

Regardless, he knew he was barely passing, and needed to at least try to make a good impression on his teacher. And walking in late wouldn't work well, he thought as he glanced at a clock on the wall. Two minutes left.

Turning the corner, he walked briskly to room 394, pausing only to look at his reflection in the mirror. It was a good thing he had no one to impress, because he looked terrible. His hair was matted and there was a smudge of dirt (he hoped) on his cheek that would not come off. Rolling his eyes, he continued to the room, looking for an unobtrusive seat in the back-  
Damn kids. The only seat left was right in the fucking front, next to the kid with his notebook out already. He walked towards the seat, draping himself in it with a sigh. This was going to suck.

"Good morning, new thinkers!" came a cheerful voice from the back.

Grantaire didn't bother to turn his head, waiting for the professor to walk to the front of the room before giving him a look.  
The voice continued. "My name is Professor Marque, and I will be moderating what I hope to be a vibrant discussion about the Age of Enlightenment!"

Marque was a pot-bellied man with reddened cheeks and bright, blue eyes. To Grantaire, he looked like the man who would smile even when he was shouting at you. How anyone could feel so happy at eight in the fucking morning was beyond him, but Grantaire just went with it. It would do no good to get kicked out on his first day of class; he didn't want another Intro to Chinese Art, now did he…

"...Our main books will be Rousseau's _Social Contract_ , Kant's _Critique of Pure Reason_ , and, of course, Locke's _Treatises on Government_. Hopefully, these will prompt some lively discussions and get us thinking in the minds of those during the Enlightenment!" He smiled at them all, obviously hoping for some sort of reaction. No one delivered.

"Well, then. Shall we begin our discussion?" Undeterred by the class and their attitude, Marque pulled a few crinkled papers from a cracked leather satchel, flattening them out on the desk beside him. With another grin, he turned to the class. "Please discuss the following question with those around you, and be prepared to share your findings with the class. In terms of political though, which is a better philosophy: Rationalism or Skepticism?"

Groaning, Grantaire turned to the notebook kid. He was rolling his eyes as the boy turned towards him. Suddenly, Grantaire saw nothing but him.

He had curly, blonde hair that was brighter than the sun, with a chiseled jaw and shining blue eyes. He was the most beautiful man Grantaire had ever seen.

"Hello, I'm Enjolras," he said, holding out his hand.

"Grantaire," Grantaire replied, avoiding the hand. Just because he was absolutely fucking gorgeous didn't mean they should shake hands. "What's your position?"

"Rationalism, obviously," Enjolras scoffed. "It's the only logical choice. One cannot know without logic—"  
  
"But logic itself is flawed, a human idea for what is right and wrong. Isn't it better to be skeptical, as the logic itself may have been built on incorrect ideas?" Grantaire interrupted.

Enjolras's eyes narrowed. "That belief is centered around instinct. Rationalism and reason are based on true, hard facts."  
  
"Those facts were made up! They could be twisted or mutilated so they aren't even the original idea anymore!"  
  
"Not if collected correctly. In fact, most information is collected in a bipartisan way, so that we can then use it for everything else-"  
  
This continued for some time, until the rest of the class had stopped speaking, and were looking at the two men. Finally, after Enjolras's face had turned the color of a tomato, Marque put a stop to the debate.  
  
"Well, this is lovely, boys, but can we move on? I'll be sure to bring back that question, however. And thank you for such a lively debate!" He turned towards the board and began writing notes. "Now, when we look at the life of Rousseau..."  
  
Grantaire immediately zoned out, playing back every minute of the debate. He catalogued every facial expression of Enjolras, from the scathing glare when Grantaire would laugh at his point to the disbelief when Grantaire actually had a valid point.  
The lesson itself was over far too soon, and before he knew it, Grantaire was loosing Enjolras in the crowd of students headed away from the dull classroom. With a sigh, Grantaire followed, ashamed of his obsession with this man. After all, who would want some old drunk?  
  
His phone buzzed, and Grantaire grabbed it as he rolled his eyes at his own self-loathing. It was Courfeyrac, the fucker who didn't have classes on Mondays.  
  
 _Jehan hasn't shut up about last night, what did you give him?  
_  
 _ **I didn't know he was such a wuss! Don't blame me! -R**  
_  
 _Joly took him home and said he was bouncing off the fucking walls  
_  
 **He didn't have to take me up on my offer. -R** _  
_  
 _Just get home so he can deal with his first hangover_  
  
Snapping his phone shut, Grantaire hustled to the metro station. It was a shame he was too cheap to own a car, because that would have been ten times easier than the bungled excuse for a public transport system.  
  
As he boarded the train, Grantaire spotted a familiar head of blonde hair. "Enjolras!" he called, moving across the train.  
  
Enjolras rolled his eyes when he saw him. "God, you again."  
  
"Why the long face? Not happy to see me?" Grantaire smirked.  
  
"I'll admit, you made class a bit more interesting."  
  
Success. "Anytime, my good man. Where are you from? I haven't seen you around here before?"  
  
"Is this your attempt to chat me up?"  
  
"Is it working?"  
  
"My stop," Enjolras said, glaring at Grantaire. "I'll see you tomorrow."  
  
"Oh yes you will!"  
  
It was only after the doors had closed and the train was moving that Grantaire realised that he should have gotten off at that stop too. So, he had to walk twice as far when he got off at the next stop.  
  
By the time he reached Joly's flat, the sun was high in the sky and his headache had worsened. Be that as it may, he knew he had to at least pretend to help Jehan, and that meant going inside the modest flat rather than going home and drowning himself in aspirin. With that thought, he opened the door and waltzed inside.  
  
"Honey, I'm home!" he shouted, only to be shushed by a frazzled Courfeyrac.  
  
"Jehan is going to kill me, I swear!" he whisper-shouted, dragging a hand through his hair. "Joly and Bossuet left about ten minutes in, and Combeferre hasn't arrived yet! Said something about a new friend, but the point is that I have a twat in my bedroom and you need to fix him."  
  
With a shove, Grantaire found himself propelled into the small room, seeing nothing but a small lump under the duvet.  
"I hear someone's been a bitch," Grantaire begins, grabbing the bottle of aspirin.  
  
Jehan simply grumbles and shifts out from under the blanket. He looks even worse than Grantaire, eyes red and hair mussed. His cheek is imprinted with a square, and there is a small cut on his lip.  
  
Nodding, Grantaire holds out four aspirin.  
  
"The amount is two, R," Jehan says scratchily.

"Well, you need four," Grantaire responded, shoving them into Jehan's hand.  
  
Once Jehan had swallowed the pills with a grimace, he flopped back onto the bed, groaning again. "Save me from the pain and torture that spirits provide," he moaned. Grantaire slapped his back and decided it was time for him to leave.  
  
"Try to keep the lamenting to a minimum, or else Courf might just slaughter you."  
  
"I'd like that, right about now," was the only reply.  
  
Chuckling, Grantaire left the room, hoping to find some coffee or tea in the mess that was Joly's kitchen, but he was instead privy to a lovely sight.  
  
Enjolras. In Joly's kitchen.  
  
He covered his shock with faux bravado. "Enjolras! You just couldn't stay away, now could you?"  
  
Enjolras paled. "Combeferre, please tell me he is not one of the friends you wanted me to meet."  
  
Combeferre walked past Grantaire, a bottle of water in his hand. "Wait, you know Grantaire?"  
  
Enjolras slapped a hand to his forehead.  
  
"Enjy and I are besties!" Grantaire said in a falsetto voice. "We've known each other since class this morning!"  
  
"You sound like fucking Jehan, R." Combeferre replied. "What class are you taking with him?"  
  
"Age of Enlightenment," Enjolras groaned. "He's making my life miserable by refuting every point I make with some half-assed argument or a snicker."  
  
"Oh do you mean that, dearest?"  
  
Enjolras just glared. Combeferre laughed. They continued small talk for a few minutes, Grantaire focusing on nothing but Enjolras. Too soon, Combeferre mentioned meeting Feuilly for lunch, and, in a flurry of coats and shoes, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras were out the door, leaving Grantaire to deal with a moaning Jehan. 

* * *

 

Sadly, Age of Enlightenment was the only class Grantaire had with his beloved blond. However, Enjolras would sometimes accompany Combeferre to the Musain for a drink, and Grantaire would catch a quick glimpse or have a quick chat before Enjolras left for schoolwork or social justice.  
  
Through their small chats, Grantaire learned that Enjolras was insane. Literally, insane. He had so much passion and fire and drive that Grantaire was always afraid he would spontaneously explode. It was not only politics that brought the fire to his eyes, but included almost any justice-type idea or right that someone was deprived of.  
  
And Grantaire loved it.  
  
Sometimes, he would provoke Enjolras, either by arguing as the devil's advocate, or simply shrugging off Enjolras' passion, simply to see the light in the man's eyes. The drawn eyebrows, the thin mouth, the set shoulders. Everything about his 'I am so sick of your shit, Grantaire' pose caused a rush in Grantaire's blood. He couldn't understand it, but he would be content with spending his entire life doing this.  
  
With this newfound obsession, his fervor for painting came back. Of course, many of his classes required him to work with certain mediums, and Grantaire could churn out what some would call a masterpiece in less than a day. But Enjolras... he made Grantaire want to paint for the hell of it. And so he did.  
  
His walls were soon covered in paintings of the man. Everything from portraits to obscure still-lifes that represented passion. Everything came in hues of vibrant red and brilliant gold, with accents of blue and white. It was a chaotic beauty, much like the man himself. Once Grantaire started, he couldn't stop. It was madness.  
  
Of course, all good things had to end. And for Grantaire, this happened after the fifth Age of Enlightenment class.  
Marque had given them another discussion topic, discussing a quote from the Kant reading they had done: "Science is organized knowledge, wisdom is organized life."  
  
As usual, Enjolras and Grantaire had gotten into a heated debate, Grantaire laughing at every point Enjolras made and shooting back his own ideas as quickly as Enjolras's had hit him. It was wonderful, and Grantaire admired Enjolras even more once the class had finished.  
  
"Why must you make my life so difficult?" Enjolras asked once they had left the classroom. His tone was angry, but Grantaire saw the twinkle in those deep blue eyes. Much as he loathed Grantaire in some respects, he really enjoyed the banter and having a competent debate partner.  
  
"We wouldn't want you to get bored, now would we Apollo?"  
  
Enjolras paused. "Wait, what did you just call me?"  
  
"I-um, sorry. Must've slipped out," Grantaire stuttered. The high from arguing left him in a flash. Damn it, he was an idiot.  
  
"No, it's okay..." But Grantaire could see it most certainly was not okay. With a huff, he turned away from Enjolras and started towards the door.  
  
"I won't be on the train today, got some things to finish," he called, rushing away from a confused (and probably disgusted)  
Enjolras so he couldn't cause any more harm.  
  
Rushing out the door, he felt his muse wake up again.  
  
Well, muse sounded nicer than “inner critic, “ or “bastard-who-ruined-his-life. “ The last one was a bit long.  
  
 _Way to make a fool of yourself._  
  
Shut up.  
  
 _That name was a secret. Now he thinks you're an idiot on top of all your other problems._  
  
You're wrong.  
  
 _Am I, though?_  
And Grantaire didn't know. Because, in all seriousness, no one liked him. His friends put up with him for his occasional humour or artistic talents, but given the chance, they would leave him in a heartbeat.  
  
Enjolras was probably feeling bad for him. He was a charity case. Enjolras's newest cause.  
  
The brisk winds hit his face as he trudged back home. It was an hour walk, but it gave him time to come up with a very long list of all the things he could do better, and of all of the reasons Enjolras hated him. By the time he reached home, Grantaire was all but wallowing, and he needed to get rid of these goddamn emotions. They were tearing him in half, twisting his soul into a million pieces, drowning him in the pain.  
  
He made a beeline for the cupboard, and pulled out the bottle. Blueberry vodka. Cheap, but it would do the trick. He unscrewed the top and took a swig, reveling in the burn of the alcohol. Taking the bottle with him, he sat down on a ragged couch in his room, locking his door from the prying eyes of Courfeyrac and Jehan. Another drink, another thought. He needed to finish the whole bottle if he wanted to forget that fucking man.  
  
 _And a worthless drunk to top it all off._


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Robyn, my lovely beta!

Serious Political Puns

Chapter 2

 

**Enjolras**

The thing Enjolras missed most about Abu Dhabi was the sun. Ever since he had transferred to school in the States, he found New York to be cloudy and cold, and if the sun did appear, it hid behind the skyscrapers. However, Abu Dhabi hadn't offered his particular course set, so he was forced to switch to the New York campus.

Yet it was not all bad. In fact, the social aspects were incredible. With so many organisations that needed members, and so many causes to fight for; Enjolras could never be bored. His newfound group of friends also added to this. Combeferre had been his friend since high school, and by keeping in touch Enjolras had managed to weasel his way into a mass of friends. Courfeyrac would wink and flash a smile in the hallway, Joly would inform him of the ailments he was suffering from, Bossuet loved to help with his American Government homework; he could go on.

And then there was Grantaire. The only friend who didn't make sense.

Grantaire was nothing like Combeferre's friends. He was crass, obnoxious, and lazy. Of course, he proved to be slightly competent in the class they shared, and Enjolras did enjoy their sparring, but he had no idea why the man hung around. A man like Grantaire should be smoking with the other deadbeats rather than pulling Combeferre down.

Shaking his head out of the thoughts, Enjolras made his way to the Café Musain. Apparently, it was the place to be on Friday night, and he wouldn't miss a chance to enlist people in his fight against whichever current injustice that was on their minds on the moment.

 _Why would we meet here?_ Enjolras thought as he walked through the café’s double doors.  
The pub was small and dingy, with a few lonely men sitting in the shadows. A young girl tended the bar, but no one was clamouring for drinks or debating politics like Enjolras had been promised.

The bartender seemed to notice his confusion and waved him over. "Can I help you, buddy?" she asked in a strong voice.

"Yes, I'm looking for Combeferre and-"

She cut him off with a loud "shut _up!"_ Noticing his confused look, she continued: "you're Apollo, aren't you? R was right! You are a fucking god!"

"You know Grantaire?"

"Who doesn’t? He basically lives here, even when his posse isn't around." She held out a hand. "Eponine, by the way."

"Why does he call me that?"

"You'll have to ask him yourself, oh great god Apollo."

"Enjolras. Not Apollo."

"Oh but you so _are!_ You and I will need to talk, Apollo. But right now, your friends are upstairs in their secret clubhouse." She motioned to a rickety staircase, and Enjolras gave her a nod and walked up…

…Into exactly what Combeferre described. It seemed as if their group had acquired a few more friends than Enjolras had met, and everyone was busy. Jehan walked around handing out drinks, his face red as Courfeyrac shamelessly flirted with the smaller man. Bossuet and Joly seemed to have commandeered a corner where they had spread out their books and were studying intensely. Combeferre caught his gaze from where he was talking to Grantaire, and waved him over.

"Enjolras! Glad you could show up! Anything?" He motioned to Grantaire's beer.

"Eh, I don't drink," he replied sheepishly. Grantaire let out a gasp, his hand flying dramatically to his chest.

"What is this? The famed Apollo deems himself above the mere mortals and their vices?" By the few slurred words, Enjolras could tell that Grantaire was already more than a bit drunk.

"I don't like having my senses impaired," Enjolras argued.

"But wine opens your eyes! You know what they say, _in vino veritas_."

"You're drinking beer."

Grantaire looked at his bottle. "Ah, you're right. Well, the sentiment still stands."

Enjolras turned to Combeferre, who was watching the exchange with amusement in his eyes. "What?"

"He's been talking about you nonstop since we got here."

"Well, he's drunk, right? By the way, what's up with the Apollo thing? He called me it one day and the sprinted away, and the girl from downstairs recognised me because of it."

Combeferre outright laughed. "Well, Eponine is always like that. But I think you'll have to ask him yourself."

Enjolras groaned. He did not want to spend his evening trying to get a coherent argument out of the drunken man.

Sensing his caution, Combeferre reassured him that Grantaire was, in fact, a surprisingly eloquent drunk, and wrote most of his best essays under the influence. "Now," he continued, "I have to leave. Ella and I are going to Skype in twenty minutes."

"Wait, you're still together?" Enjolras asked, aghast. Ella and Combeferre had dated for three years, but then the latter left for New York and Enjolras had assumed the pair had broken up. As Combeferre blushed, however, Enjolras knew it was still a thing. "Congratulations!" he said, thinking that something should come out of his mouth.  A few more words were exchanged, and Combeferre left, leaving Enjolras with an inebriated Grantaire.

"So, how are you doing on your essay?" Enjolras asked, hoping for a simple conversation.

Grantaire snorted. "You're resorting to small talk? I thought we were better friends than this, dear."

"Then tell me about my name," Enjolras blurted out. Grantaire frowned. "Apollo," he clarified, "you called me it that day after class."

Grantaire blushed. "It slipped out," he said, voice suddenly much meeker. "Think nothing of it."

"But the girl downstairs, Epoline or something, called me Apollo."

"That bitch." Grantaire glared at the floor as if she could see him. He took another drink, returning his eyes to Enjolras, smiling cheekily. "Fine. It fits, doesn't it?"

"God of truth and sexy as hell." It was Enjolras's turn to blush.

"I'm not that-"

"Oh shut it, Apollo," Grantaire slurred, pointing his new bottle at Enjolras. "I can't even focus in class with you anymore. Your stupid eyes and stupid smile. And your stupid hair that's brighter than the sun. But let’s not forget your voice, Mr. Eloquence." His ramblings continued, growing more and more vulgar until Courfeyrac heard and rushed over, covering Grantaire's mouth with his hand.

"God, Enjolras. I'm sorry about this dick. I'd better get him home, or else he'll bother the whole cafe." He sent an apologetic look towards Jehan before taking the bottle out of Grantaire's hand.

"I can't take you away from Jehan," Enjolras countered. "I can take him home. I've got an essay to finish anyway."

Courfeyrac brightened. "That would be great! You're a savior, Enjy." He turned away and slid an arm around Jehan's shoulder, playing with the smaller man's braid.

"Come on, Grantaire. You need to go home," he growled, trying to drag the man out of the room.

"Going to take me to bed, are you?" Grantaire said loudly. Enjolras didn't respond, simply pulling him out of the cafe and into the dark street. Once they were walking, Grantaire slung an arm around Enjolras' shoulder, and they sauntered down the street, when Enjolras realised he had no idea where Grantaire lived.

"On a street," Grantaire said when Enjolras voiced his question. Groaning, Enjolras realized he would have to take Grantaire to his house.

For the majority of the walk, Grantaire was silent, content to play with the small hairs on Enjolras' neck. Seeing as it was better than the crass comments, Enjolras allowed it. He soon found that he actually enjoyed it.

Finally, they reached Enjolras' townhouse that he and Combeferre shared. A sudden thought came to him, and he turned to Grantaire.

"Listen to me, Grantaire," he said quietly, hoping to get through the aclohol-fogged brain. "'Ferre is Skyping with his girlfriend so we have to be quiet. Please don't shout or I'll throw you out the window."

Grantaire nodded meekly, and the two opened the door, Grantaire still not letting go of Enjolras. They heard the sound of laughter coming from Combeferre's room, and silently passed into Enjolras'. Grantaire made a beeline for the bed, and Enjolras couldn't help but smile. He had curled up on the blanket and kicked off his shoes, nuzzling into the pillow.

The domesticity of it all suddenly hit Enjolras. He and Grantaire weren't even friends, right? More acquaintances. Grantaire was crass and obnoxious and lazy and drunk...

...and really adorable right now.

Enjolras rolled his eyes at the thought. Then, ignoring the mumbles from his bed, he turned to the oak desk to finish his three essays, two of which were for petitions against the biased and bigoted government.

He typed in silence but for the occasional comment from Grantaire.

"Your sheets smell like lemon."

"Do you smell like lemon?"

"I think you do, but I can't tell because I have a stuffy nose."

"Sometimes I think you never sleep 'cause you do so much stuff."

They kept coming until he apparently fell asleep, letting Enjolras finish a quick letter to the author of an incredibly irritating article in the _Times_. However, he managed to catch the last mumble over the shuffle of sheets:

"I don't deserve this."

Enjolras turned sharply, but Grantaire's eyes were closed and his breathing was even. Unable to write anything else, Enjolras threw on a pair of worn sweatpants and debated going to sleep in the study. However, after moments of deliberation, he decided he wouldn't let Grantaire keep him from getting a good night's rest.

Gingerly, he climbed over the sleeping man and lay stiff as a plank on the bed, not daring to move. But he didn't have to worry, for as soon as he dipped into the mattress, Grantaire shifted over and threw and arm over Enjolras' chest, effectively trapping him. Rather than moving it, Enjolras simply accepted it, and fell asleep to dreams of warmth and black hair.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bienvenue! My muse has returned, and so has this story! Really sorry for the wait, but I should probably get the next chapter up soon! Thanks for being patient, and please enjoy! xoxo

Grantaire

He remembered very little of the night before, and it was quite upsetting as he would have loved to know how he ended up in Enjolras’ bed. After all, it wasn’t every day one woke up in the bed of a God. Gingerly, he attempted to get out of the bed without jostling the other man. Grabbing his phone, he hoped to clear a few things up.

**Who can explain how I ended up in bed with E? –R**

Jehan replied to the mass text almost immediately:

_YOU WENT HOME WITH E? Lucky bastard! x_

**Yeah. Do either you or Courf know what happened? –R**

_Last I saw you were really drunk and E was talking with you. He took over for C as you sober buddy x_

Grantaire looked back at the sleeping man. He had volunteered to stay? Why? Pity?

Probably.

Grantaire sent a quick thank-you to Jehan and left the immaculate bedroom to enter a modern living room. Sitting on one of the couches, glasses on the edge of his nose, sat Combeferre.

“Hello?” Combeferre asked, looking up as Grantaire entered. From the look Grantaire was given, the two were both confused.

“I was hoping you could explain that, actually.” Grantaire shifted awkwardly. He and Combeferre had never been the greatest friends as Combeferre didn’t approve of Grantaire’s coping mechanisms. As Combeferre was about to speak, a sleepy, bed headed, Enjolras shuffled in. His eyebrows drew together as he realized Grantaire was in the room.

“What are you doing here?”

“I, um, don’t exactly know…”

“No, not you, idiot.” Enjolras waved him aside. “’Ferre. I thought you had an eight o’clock class?”

Combeferre glanced at the clock. 7:48. “Shit,” he muttered, throwing books into his bag.  He managed a wave at Enjolras before bolting out the door.

Finally, Enjolras turned his gaze onto Grantaire. “Breakfast?”

Grantaire nodded and Enjolras padded towards the kitchen, running a hand through his hair. “Do eggs work for you? ‘Ferre is a vegetarian so we don’t have any meat.”

“Yeah, fine.” What was going on? Silence fell upon them until Grantaire blurted out: “why am I here?”

Enjolras sighed and turned off the stove. “You were drunk and I, ah, brought you home.”

Fuck, Enjolras had had to clean up his mess? “Well I hope you didn’t try to take advantage of a poor drunk man like myself.” He winked. “Why, Mr. Enjolras, you could’ve had your wicked way with me!”

Enjolras blushed and Grantaire thought that if he could see that blush and smile just one more time, he would do anything.

“It wasn’t like that. Courfeyrac had gone home and…well no one deserves to pass out at a bar, no matter how obnoxious they may be.” Enjolras’ sincerity confused Grantaire, but he put it off as one of his many quirks.

“Erm, thanks, then,” Grantaire said awkwardly. This was why he drank. Sobriety made him question everything, whilst alcohol drowned common sense. After all, what use was common sense when man himself never used this trait?

The two men sat in silence as Enjolras puttered around the kitchen and Grantaire twiddled with a pencil. Grantaire thought that silence with Enjolras would be stifling as their normal banter was almost comfortable, yet this was surprisingly calm. Grantaire was content to sit and watch Enjolras cook (of course, the view wasn’t bad either). However, once the eggs had been put down, awkwardness began.

Of course, the food was perfect. Grantaire didn’t expect anything less from his Apollo. However, with each bite Enjolras would give him an odd look, as if he was confused.

“May I help you?”

“What’s your major?” Enjolras asked, calmly putting down his fork.

“Classical Lit. Why?”

“Are you from here?”

“No, I was born upstate-“

“Any siblings?”

“A sister. But what are you asking for?”

“What about-“

“Is this the Spanish Inquisition?” Grantaire asked jokingly, unprepared for the blush that appeared.

“No I—I just realized we know nothing about each other. I don’t even know your first name.”

“Two people in this world know my first name, dear Enjolras.” Grantaire _hated_ his first name, opting instead for his surname. He took another bite of eggs. “Well, if you get to know about me, I want to know about you.”

“I was born in Normandy but I’ve lived in six different countries, I have a younger brother and sister who both still live with my mother in Brussels. I’m studying for a Political Science degree with a double minor in Philosophy and French. I enjoy-“

“Woah, calm down there Enjy. Take a breath. I’m not going anywhere” _although you’ll probably want me to soon._ “This should be a bit more natural, don’t you think?”

Enjolras nodded. “I apologize.” He stopped talking and the awkward silence returned. Grantaire never truly understood how someone could be crushed by a silence, but this was deafening. Finally, Grantaire couldn’t take it anymore.

Setting his fork down, Grantaire stood. “It’s been lovely, dear Apollo, but I must bid you leave. I’ve probably imposed too much so…” he trailed off, looking around for his coat. Finally finding it draped over a chair, he made for the door.

“Wait, Grantaire,” Enjolras called, following him to the door. “I’m, uh, sorry if I made you uncomfortable, I just wish to know you better. I think there’s a good man beneath that cynical shell.”

Grantaire felt his heart soar. “That’s idealistic of you.”

Enjolras smiled. “See you in class?”

Grantaire nodded and left, a grin on his face. The minute he left the building, he called Eponine.

“I think we’re becoming friends,” he said, in lieu of greeting. Eponine squealed, and demanded details. Grantaire replayed the conversation word for word, the smile never leaving his face.

He and Eponine talked as he walked back to the flat, pulling out a sketchbook as he finished the call. Pencil in hand, he tried to do justice to the visage of Apollo, but nothing worked. Eventually, he was surrounded by crumpled up pieces of paper and a stub of a pencil and the joyful high all but gone.

He would drink, but even Courfeyrac would get angry if he started before noon. Instead, he picked up a copy of _Anna Karenina_ and tried to lose himself in Tolstoy’s prose. Of course, that didn’t work. His hands began to get twitchy and the itch came back. That itch to do something to make something to _be something_. Of course, he couldn’t do anything because he would ultimately fail. He always did. It was the one constant in his ever-changing life.

* * *

 

Slowly, Grantaire became friends with Enjolras. It was an odd experience, but the two became quite close. Their arguments leaned towards amusing and playful, although Grantaire still did everything to light the fire in Enjolras’ eyes. Each day after class, Enjolras would wait for Grantaire and walk him to the subway before they got off at their separate stops. They talked about their past and their lives and their dreams and Grantaire began to see Enjolras less as an idol and more of a friend.

Although he still felt inadequate in front of the man, Grantaire learned to put aside his feelings to focus on the life he lived. He tried to drink less because Enjolras was more apt to argue with a sober man, even if it only meant one less beer at the Musain. However, each time he took a sip of water rather than alcohol, the smile on Enjolras’ face was bright enough to light the room.

The only person Grantaire confided his feelings in was Bahorel. However, that was mainly because Bahorel was the only person who would go drinking with him on a Tuesday night, and so he was the only person who would help a smashed Grantaire into bed at night.

* * *

 

“No but I really love him,” Grantaire slurred as Bahorel took off his shoes one night. Someone needed to understand his emotions, and the world was spinning. Bahorel was the only constant here.

“Yes, I understand, R, but it’s time for bed. Why don’t you tell him that tomorrow?”

“He just wants to be friends,” Grantaire murmured, falling onto his pillow. “Why would he ever want this?”

Bahorel sighed and pulled the covers up onto his friend. “He’ll come around, don’t worry,” he whispered and Grantaire felt calmer knowing that Bahorel was always right.

* * *

 

By the time first semester finals came around, Grantaire had the joy of helping Enjolras study. While immersed in essays and speeches, the man never ate, let alone slept. Only after confiscating his laptop and textbook was Grantaire able to convince him to eat a piece of toast.

“But I have to keep working! This essay is due in three days and I only have two-thousand words! This is more important than sleep!”

“Enjorlas you’ve been up for three days straight.”

The man in question stood up and wobbled, his eyes closing for a second. “’M not tired at all, though.”

Grantaire groaned and sent a text to Combeferre, explaining the situation. He then walked over to Enjolras and grabbed his shoulders, all but dragging him into the bedroom. Soon, Enjolras was clinging to him as well and Grantaire didn’t want to think about him like _that_ , not while he was in this state.

“Sleep for at least an hour and then you can work more.”

“Still not tired.”

“Of course you’re not.”

Enjolras slept for six hours. When he awoke, he was furious at Grantaire, but it was worth it if his eyes looked just a little bit brighter.

* * *

 

They got through finals, Enjolras acing everything and Grantaire passing at the bare minimum, and everyone decided to celebrate at the Musain. Courfeyrac carried in three boxes of cheap wine and Jehan followed with a cake. Once everyone was lightly buzzed, Grantaire felt at home. Even Enjolras was walking around with a drink, although he hadn’t taken more than one sip of it. Combeferre and Joly were discussing tests with Bossuet, Courfeyrac had roped Eponine and Bahorel into a drinking game, and Jehan was curled around Enjolras as the blonde man tried to shake off the younger one (anyone could see he wasn’t trying very hard). Grantaire, for one of the few times in his life, was happy.

Of course, it all changed when he got the phone call.

“Mr. Grantaire?” A woman’s voice said from an unknown number.

“Yeah?”

“We’re calling about your sister, Celine. She is currently at Memorial Hospital-“

“What?” Grantaire tried to keep his voice low as he walked away from the party for a moment. “What do you mean, the hospital?”

“We can explain more later, but you’re on the paper as next of kin and we would like you to fill out some papers.”

Without a second thought, Grantaire began to gather his things and rushed out the door into the cold air. “Just tell me what happened.”

“Celine was caught in a drunk driving accident, and is currently comatose.”

Grantaire dropped his phone and ran.


End file.
